One Life
by Gixxer Pilot
Summary: "You only get one life, John. It sounds like Jocelyn made hers count. Have you?" Had he, indeed. Tag for 4C.


**Title**: One Life

**Author**: Gixxer Pilot

**Summary**: "You only get one life, John. It sounds like Jocelyn made hers count. Have you?" Had he, indeed. Tag for 4C.

**Author's Notes**: This story is what happens when I combine my iTunes with my wonder of what or who convinced Reese to go back to work with Finch at the end of '4C'. Inspired by Boyce Avenue's 'One Life' because I thought it was so utterly, completely fitting for John.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Person of Interest or Boyce Avenue's song. Please don't sue me – I make no monetary profit from my work. I write because the voices in my head say I should.

* * *

In the end, it hadn't been as hard of a task as he'd originally thought. In fact, Reese found tendering his resignation to Finch to be a fairly straightforward thing. Go to the Library, tell Harold he was glad the older man was still alive, and disappear before he could change his mind. Easy. In fact, it'd been easier than when he'd "quit" the CIA. Even if both jobs had netted him a new bullet scar or two, this time, at least it was of his own accord.

John tried to tell himself that it didn't hurt, walking away from the only person left in the world who gave a flying shit about him. The look of elation and then utter deflation on Finch's face tore at the tenuous hold Reese had on his resolve to walk away. He'd gotten down to street level and burst through the door, sucking in great gulps of air as his extra-sensitive hearing listened for the sounds of his ex-employer's uneven footsteps.

He heard nothing, not that he really expected it.

But even if Harold had been able to catch him, to reason with him, John couldn't do it anymore. Not after what happened to Carter. Not when the omnipresent machine Finch built couldn't help him save the one person that actually mattered. Not when he couldn't trust his employer.

He was _done_ with the Numbers and that was the end of it.

John was accustomed to a nomadic lifestyle; 'home' was wherever he rested his head at night. He knew fleeing was taking the coward's way out, but he couldn't summon the energy to care. He just knew was that he needed to get the hell out of New York City. Reese booked a ticket blindly, choosing Istanbul because he'd never been there before. There would be no negative or positive associations, just a blank slate from which he could start from scratch. All he had to do was get on the plane and go.

But then, in a strange case of déjà vu, fate interrupted. Only this time, it wasn't a subway and Anton O'Mara and his dimwitted, wannabe bangers. It was a Relevant who had half the aircraft out for his blood. John punched an obnoxious fellow traveler, knocked out a few trained killers (amateurs, really), been stabbed in the shoulder with a fork (_that_ pissed him off), contributed to the delinquency of a minor by introducing him to alcohol (not his proudest moment), and fought off a successful suicide plot (with a little help).

Not bad for a guy who swore he didn't want to get involved.

But he still couldn't congratulate himself for a job well done, even after saving a planeload of passengers. There was a chasm smoldering deep in his chest, consuming him from the inside out like a festering wound. John still wasn't sure what Jocelyn was to him – friend, confidant, mother hen, counselor, something more – but he knew she was, above else, the good person he wished he could have been. Ever since her…departure, Reese felt like someone had ripped what was left of his soul from his body and pissed on it for good measure, simply because they could.

John's default action when he didn't want to think about his life was to drink until he couldn't see straight, until the mezzo forte symphony of _guiltangerfearshameregret_ stopped screaming inside his head. And as soon as he managed to clear customs in Rome, that was the first and only thing on the agenda.

He found a small tavern near the airport that was still open after he deplaned. The air in the pub was stagnant, thick and cloudy with the scent of stale cigarettes and cigars permeating every corner. He ordered a double of bottom shelf whiskey in his rusty, choppy Italian and tossed it back with nary a flinch. Reese motioned for the bartender, buying the bottle before he could fully contemplate all the reasons it was a bad idea. He topped off his tumbler and raised the glass to his lips. But before he actually took a drink, he stopped.

This is not what she'd want.

With a sigh, John got up and left, leaving the full bottle on the bar next to a small stack of euros to cover the tab. If he'd been smart, Reese would have found some suitable accommodations and called it a night, but he was never a man who did as he should. Regardless, John's body craved rest, reminding him rudely that his physical recovery was still far from 100% complete. But instead of doing the smart thing, Reese followed his gut, wandering the cobblestone streets of Rome all night. No destination, no plan, just his own thoughts and the cool Italian air.

He wasn't sure how long he'd walked, but eventually Reese's feet found their way to Ponte Umberto I, one of the many bridges spanning the River Tiber. His entire body protesting mightily, John sighed before he plopped his ass down on the damp stone, gazing through the darkness towards the lights of Vatican City. The shiny dome of St. Peter's Basilica loomed in the distance, beckoning him. Reese briefly considered paying the holy place a visit but discounted it just as quickly. It'd been years since he believed in God. That part of him died years ago.

So much had changed.

Maybe in another life, one where he made different choices, he'd have maintained a hold on his humanity. In that other life, one where the World Trade Center stayed upright on 9/11 and where his country hadn't needed his service, maybe he'd have been a husband and a father with a nine to five job. He'd have been the one who would have left the office early to take his kids to baseball practice, who would have gone to parent-teacher conferences, and who would have been responsible for lectures over low grades and missing homework. There might have been barbecues and vacations, Christmases as birthdays. He would have adopted a dog from a shelter, not stolen it from the Aryan brotherhood. In short, it would have been _normal_.

And maybe in that life, Jocelyn Carter survived because she never met John Reese. Perhaps she would have had the long and illustrious career with the NYPD for which she seemed destined from the start. She never would have been fixated on New York's Man in the Suit and she never would have compromised her morals to catch him. She and Cal Beecher would have been happy, perhaps never crossing paths with HR or Carl Elias. Maybe in that life, Taylor wouldn't have to grow up without his mother.

Reese jammed the pads of his thumbs in his eyes, angrily wiping away the tears that threatened to fall. He shivered involuntarily; the cold dampness of the stone bridge was seeping through his jeans, chilling him from the outside in. John knew he should probably get up, get moving, but he was too tired to even contemplate trying, or indeed to give a flying fuck. Instead, he sat like a statue, content simply watch the world pass.

To the east, the first tendrils of sunlight lapped at the horizon, rays shaded in red and blue and pink. Another day was about to begin and life marched on. But if the world kept spinning, why did he feel so utterly stuck? Reese buried his face in his hands and exhaled a shuddering breath.

"Funny I should find you here."

John's head snapped up so quickly that his neck popped in three places. Surprise danced over his features for a quick second before he reined it in, sliding his cool mask in its place. He looked up into Holly's warm face, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. "Holly."

"John," she replied with a nod of her head. Her lips quirked up in a smile when she added, "I guess the International Department of Homeland Security didn't spring very well for your accommodations."

"Budget's a little tight this year," he quipped. "Lots of cutbacks."

She let out a little harrumph, turning her body to face the basilica. She laid her forearms gently on the bridge's ledge and sighed. "You know, this is my favorite place in Rome."

John unfolded his long frame and climbed gracefully to his feet. Despite the injuries and the less-than-complete recovery, the nearly balletic ease of movement still hadn't deserted him. "You come here often?" he asked, sidling up to her left shoulder.

"Every time I can. I love to watch the sun come up from here. It's so pretty." She turned her head and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "But I don't normally have company. Most sane people aren't usually up this early."

"Hmm." Reese set his eyes on the horizon and watched the sun come up. The golden rays bounced off the still water of the river, the light gently lapping at the buildings and streets.

Holly stole a few furtive glances toward her silent companion. "So what actually brings you out at this ungodly time of day, especially after a flight like we had?"

The ex-CIA agent opened his mouth to reply, lies ready to roll off his lips. He took a breath to speak and then stopped, instead dropping his chin to his chest. Very quietly, he rumbled out a rough but honest, "I don't know."

"Well, you look like someone just ran over your dog." Seeing the man tense, Holly laid a gentle hand on his forearm. "You know, my mom always said it's good to talk about it, and you did say you'd get a drink with me. Can I take you up on that offer?"

The corners of Reese's eyes crinkled as he searched Holly's face. "It's a little early to be drinking, don't you think? People might talk."

"I never said it had to contain alcohol." She motioned with her head. "Come on. I know a great little bistro not too far from here that serves mean lattes and eggs benedict."

Mulling it over, John nodded and replied, "Only if you let me pay. It's the least I can do after you decked that guy with the coffee pot. Nice swing, by the way. Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Tennis. I've always had a solid forehand," she answered succinctly.

John smirked, laid a hand on the small of Holly's back and allowed her to lead the way. Content to listen to the chirping birds and the sounds of the waking city, Reese let a comfortable silence take over. Holly led him through the back streets and alleys, in between buildings and through open streets. Eventually they arrived at a small hotel, off the beaten path and in the middle of an older residential area of Rome. John greeted the maître d at the entrance in Italian, requesting a table out of the way. He nodded, grabbed a couple of menus and showed them to their seat. Settling in with their coffees brought by a lightning-quick waiter, John let Holly make the first move.

"So," she began, somewhat uncertainly.

"So," he replied, eyes downcast into his drink.

"Why don't you start by telling me about yourself." She pursed her lips and fixed him with a stare that could only be described as 'motherly'. "The _real_ you. Not the line of BS you gave me on the plane."

"I-," he said, faltering. Reese took a breath, smiling up apologetically at his companion. "I'm not very good at this."

"I can tell," she replied flatly. She reached across the table and clasped one of his larger hands into both of hers. "Stop thinking so much, John. Just talk. Sometimes that's the best way."

Reese swallowed. He knew she was right; he knew he needed to stop running and sort out his head. But how and who could he trust? How was he supposed to reach out to another person – another complete stranger – when every fiber of his being was screaming at him that this was not safe, could get him killed, breech of protocol, _wrongwrongwrong_?

He smiled sadly as Carter's soulful voice floated through his mind, imagining her tilt her head down, raise a perfectly groomed eyebrow and fix him with a pointed stare. '_Sometimes, John, you just have to go on instinct and have some faith_.'

Reese lifted his head, studying the earnest woman sitting opposite him at the table.

Holly was not Kara.

Holly was not Jessica.

Holly was just a good person who'd somehow managed worm her way past all his defenses to befriend him.

Just like Joss Carter did.

It was amazing how easily it all came pouring out after that. Though he changed names and gave no real specifics about Finch, the Machine or the Numbers, he spoke freely about the coworker and friend he'd recently lost. Reese told Holly how much this person meant to him, how she did so much for him without knowing it. How she was one of those people the world was worse off for not having in it anymore. How he desperately wished he could have done more to help her when she needed him most.

In his mind, he also acknowledged that it would have been better if _he_ were the one six feet under in a cold box. In fact, he'd dreamt about it, even wished for it.

John shut his mouth before he actually vocalized some of the darker thoughts that pervaded his mind. He drained his coffee and interlaced his fingers, slouching as much of his long frame into the tiny chair as possible. He sighed, eyes downcast. "It's probably safe for me to say it's not been a good couple of months."

"I think that's about the worst understatement I've ever heard," Holly agreed with a lightness to offset his serious tone. She gave him a moment to collect himself, leaving the table to top off her coffee. Settling in, she gently stirred the foam into her latte. "Can I ask you something?"

Reese swallowed. "Sure," he replied.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and wrapped her fingers around the warm mug in front of her. "When we were deplaning, you said you help people. That's your job. Is that true?"

John's reply was a hard set of his jaw. "It was. I used to help people. Past tense," he finally said after a long pause.

She cocked her head to the side. "Why does it have to be 'used to' now? If I can be totally forward, whatever it is you did or do or…something, it seems like you're made for it."

Reese shook his head imperceptibly. "Not anymore," he whispered. "I can't."

Holly looked unimpressed. "Why not? Give me one good reason."

"I just can't," he insisted. Though John's tone left no room for argument, the emotion he'd been fighting back since he landed in Rome caught in a painful lump in his throat.

"Are you afraid?" she prodded.

John smiled sadly. His voice a mere whisper, he answered, "Afraid? No. But selfish? Yeah."

"I find that really hard to believe," Holly replied through pursed her lips. "You want to know why? I know people. I might be a lowly flight attendant, but it's my job to know what people are thinking or doing every second we're in the air. And as much as you try to tell yourself that you don't want to get involved, you care, John. Your natural instinct is to protect. You can't just shut that off, and you can't be selfish if that's not your brain's default setting."

Reese closed his eyes. Finch's words, spoken in haste when John had his forearm pressing on the other man's jugular, ricochet through his mind. '_I think all you ever wanted to do was protect people_…' He spun his cup around in a slow circle on the table. "I have to give it up, Holly, for more reasons that you'd ever understand."

"Then what do you plan on doing with the rest of your life? Are you just going to be a bum on the street somewhere? Because you're too young for that," she said to him with a light laugh.

John shrugged. "I could do it again, yeah."

Holly's jaw dropped open and then snapped quickly closed as she took in his serious tone. "Oh, my God," she gasped. "You're not kidding. I'm so sorry. That was out of line."

"You couldn't have known there was truth to what you were saying. I won't hold it against you," he told her. "Besides, it's not as bad as you might think. The anonymity is nice. Most relaxing four months I've had in a long time."

"John, stop deflecting," she scolded.

He snorted. "Sorry. Default setting."

Holly smiled and laid a hand on his forearm. "Look, I know I don't know you that well and you don't me, well, really at all. But I can't see you sitting around on your thumbs while the world passes you by. Yes, you could have chosen do nothing about that kid on our plane last night. But you didn't. Even though you wanted nothing to do with the situation, _you stepped in_. And that? That makes you special."

Reese's face went blank, stony and unreadable. "Not special enough."

Smiling sadly, she found John's gaze and held it. "Stop doing this to yourself."

"What?"

"You know what," she replied flatly, fixing him with an irritated stare. "Stop blaming yourself for something you couldn't change." Holly held up a hand when he opened his mouth to protest. "Ah! Just hear me out."

John closed his mouth and sat back in his chair. "Fine."

"Did you do everything within your physical means to help your friend?"

Reese thought about everything he'd done, from the moment he'd shot his way into the judge's house to the time he felt Carter exhale her last breath. The space in between Finch dragging him away from her still form to the moment he woke up to Dr. Madani's angry expression above him for the second time in three days was a blur, but he did recall some snippets. Snapshots of a garbage truck and an SUV, a hallway and SWAT officers, pulling a trigger that wouldn't fire, the lightheaded euphoria of blood loss and the pain from fresh gunshot wounds all blended together in his memories.

John inhaled through his nose as he tried desperately to clamp down the swell of emotion rolling under the surface of his self-control. In a nearly inaudible whisper, he replied, "Yes."

"Then you have nothing to hang your head over. Whatever it is – whatever really happened, I don't need to know the whole story. But making yourself miserable out of some misguided sense of guilt isn't the way to go."

"It's not that simple."

"I think it is," she told him with as much conviction as he felt self-doubt. "You know, my grandmother always used to tell me that you only get one life and that it's a crime not to live it all the way. So I'm going to say the same thing to you: you only get one life, John. It sounds like she made hers count. Can you say you've done the same? Go back to work. Go back to doing what you were made to do."

Reese felt like his brain was about to explode. Holly's words rang through his head, interspersing with Carter's own voice. '_When your time is up, it's up_.' Holly was right; Joss _had_ made her life count in the short time she'd been allotted. She'd done so much without even knowing it. She'd left everyone she touched that much better for it. She made Fusco a better, more honest cop, she gave the world Taylor, she kept her morals intact in Iraq, she pushed her ex into the treatment he needed to be a father.

And, most importantly, Joss was the reason he was still alive, in more ways that one.

There were no chirping birds or ringing bells or random, lone beams of light that accompanied his revelation, but at that moment, John Reese realized that his life wasn't done and that he still had more to offer the world. He owed it to Carter to keep going, owed it to her so everything she sacrificed, everything she did to change him, wouldn't be for naught. Finch had actually been correct when he warned John that revenge would be doing a disservice to all Joss accomplished. It just took Reese an extra month to figure out _why_.

If Reese was Finch's contingency plan, then perhaps Carter was the contingency's contingency. For John, it wasn't about making up for past misdeeds anymore. It was going to be about living while he could, doing as much good as he could with as much time as he had left, however long that was.

After all, Holly was right: he was only going to get one life.

He figured he'd damn well better make it a good one.

Jocelyn Carter wouldn't approve of anything less.

**-FIN-**


End file.
